


Game

by Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: BDSM, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-03
Updated: 2002-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/Laura%20Shapiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a smutty little Red Dwarf story with no nutritional value.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game

**Author's Note:**

> "Game" was written for a circle challenge. Many thanks to Jane, who probably expected something entirely different, for the inspirational quote.
> 
> This is for The Spike, who asked and audienced.

An erection that ached like a hangover roused him from sleep. At least he'd come to before he soiled his pajamas. Rimmer didn't understand how, or why, a hologram should be subject to such indignities as wet dreams, but he certainly wasn't going to ask Holly about it.

"Lights!" he said irritably, sitting up on his bunk. Lister, above him, moaned and shifted. Probably putting his poor useless head under the blankets, the slobbo.

But the moan twigged something. What had he been dreaming?

Lister grunted.

Oh. Smeg. Not _again_.

His 27th erotic dream in a row, but was it Yvonne MacGruder? Not likely. Ever since the travesty of that stupid virtual reality game, his occasional nocturnal dalliances with MacGruder had given way to nightly shags with his bunkmate. Dave Lister, fat cumin-scented git, en flagrante delicto with him every smegging night. Perhaps _this_ was why they called masturbation self-abuse.

Rimmer rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore his insistent stiffie. "Ship's time, Holly?" He waited. "Holly!"

Holly had his nightcap on, the silly ponce. "Three-fourteen, Arnold. Did you want a glass of water or a nice cup of Bovril?"

"Oh, go back to sleep," he muttered, as Holly switched off. He could have come up with a proper insult, but he had more pressing problems, namely the shuddery feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he recalled the dream. The dream which was turning his pajama bottoms into a three-ring circus, complete with a red-nosed clown riding a unicycle.

In the dream, he was alive, for starters. At least, he had a real body again, although the "H" was still firmly stuck onto his forehead. He knew that, because Lister kept bumping against it when they...when they...

A surge of longing started somewhere in his chest and flooded into his dick, stopping midway to turn his stomach upside down. There were lots of things happening in that dream, and he was familiar with most of them, having dreamed it 27 times. But it was the thought of Dave Lister kissing him that made Rimmer's assorted bits all quivery.

"Probably tastes like Gimboid's Garlic-Flavored Lager, anyway," Rimmer muttered, lying back down on his bunk. Lister mumbled and shifted again. If he had a wank, Rimmer thought, he'd have to do double calisthenics in the morning to make up the energy lost in spending his virile essence. Not to mention the likelihood of waking Lister, who'd be only too happy to mock him. If he didn't have a wank...his dick surged in protest.

He needed a distraction. He wasn't going back to sleep, that was all too smeggingly clear. And unless he did something about it, his mind was going to keep going back to Lister's hands on him, holding down his shoulders as he...

That will be quite enough of that, he snapped, slapping his puerile sex drive upside the head. Distraction. Something to _do_.

What on earth was there to do? Did he really want to see that new version of Casablanca for the twelfth time?

The game. Without the Cat and Lister in there, mucking it all up, he could enjoy "Better Than Life" all to himself, no nasty reminders of his, well, of what _they_ thought of  
him, to gum up the works. "Better Than Life," Rimmer-style. It would all be ticketty-boo.

Rimmer launched himself out of his bunk and headed down the corridor to the recreation area. Oh, it would be perfect. No more Yvonne MacGruder this time; peephole-bra or not, that was a risk he didn't want to take. Perhaps he could find that 20th-century film starlet again, or someone like her. Or someones. Beware, ladies of the virtual universe, Rimsy was back!

He was completely in control this time, he was sure of it. In a good mood, bursting with macho strength and self-confidence, with a boner the size of a regulation supplies freighter, third class.

"Holly," he called, as he headed for the gaming console. "Wake up, Holly, you overgrown abacus with delusions of usefulness!"

"You what?"

"Can you at least *try* to achieve some semblance of consciousness? I want to be plugged into that game again. Better Than Life."

There was a brief pause, the sort of pause that in any non-silicon-based non-life form would have been filled with a sarcastic smile, but in Holly's case usually gave way to a practical joke. Rimmer felt nervously at his hair, but it seemed to be the regulation 1 1/4 inches in  
length.

At last, Holly replied "All right, Arnold." Rimmer stepped up on the gaming platform as Holly conjured a VR helmet and goggles for him.

"Hurry up, Holly. There's a big-breasted blonde moaning in frustration for me even as we speak."

"Are you ready then, Arnold?"

"Of course I'm ready, you --" He was standing on a beach, and his insult drifted off into the sea-scented air.

It was warmer than he'd remembered. For a moment, Rimmer stood and basked in the novel sensation of sunshine on his face. Why hadn't he thought of this before? The world was his. He was free.

A giggle interrupted his gloating. He turned to see Marilyn Whatshername smiling at him from a few feet away. She waggled her fingers at him and tottered off across the sand, wobbling a bit on her high heels. Rimmer enjoyed the bounce and jiggle of her retreating hindquarters for a few seconds and then sprinted after her.

Some kind of tent appeared on the dunes, resplendent with red and yellow pennants fluttering in the wind. A pasha's lair. His own private oasis. Marilyn held the tent flap open for him, wrinkling her divine little nose in a way that made Rimmer want to...and he could! Rimmer laughed out loud and pulled her into his arms. She cooed. He was about to give her a snog when he caught a whiff of the Cat's cologne emanating from her impressive cleavage. Vile trollop.

"Clear off," he barked, shoving her away. This was _his_ game, and he was not about to settle for the Cat's leftovers. Fortunately, he had complete control of the situation. He ducked into the tent.

It was larger than it looked from the outside, filled with sumptuous fruits and tidbits, and some of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. They were all wearing variations of metal bikinis like actresses in a low-class space opera holovid, and he recognized some of their  
faces, and other bits, from a pile of men's magazines he'd unearthed in his father's closet when he was nine. "Aaaaaaaaaaaarnold," they chorused.

The beginnings of a smeg-eating grin crept over Rimmer's face, and he quickly toned it down to what he hoped was an ever-so-cool smirk. "Hullo, ladies. Your long wait is over. Arnie is here." He slung his arms about the two nearest beauties. Their skin was warm and supple. "Now, then, who's first?"

Giggling, they bore him to silk-covered cushions on the tent floor and began removing his clothing. A cat-eyed brunette fed him peeled grapes while blonde twins with the nicest breasts he'd ever seen made short work of his pajama trousers. A redhead knelt and began kneading his thighs with fragrant oil. Bliss.

Grape after grape exploded between his teeth -- she was feeding them in as fast as he could swallow and it was starting to be a bit annoying. Just as the thought flickered across his mind, the brunette substituted her nipple for the fruit, and the redhead's slippery hand grasped his dick.

It's working! I have control! he thought excitedly. And also, oh god yes. The nipple rose firmly and he chewed it in delight, his moans stifled against the soft, perfumed flesh. The slick, gentle motions on his burning erection were deliciously frustrating.

But the hands were starting to turn him over, sliding over to his hips, and the brunette's gumdrop breast disappeared with an audible pop. "Hey!" he complained, as soon as his mouth was free, He was face-down on the cusions now, warm oily caresses now painting his backside and reaching up under the pajama top, which he still wore.

"Um, er...all right, then..." Fingers kneaded and tickled. His stiffie was bigger than ever, smashed achingly beneath him. But this was rather...

Painful, as stroking became pinching, and pinching became slapping. His cheeks burned. All four of them. "Kinky lot, aren't you?" he grumbled into the cushions. All of his bits seemed oddly tingly, happy with the slapping sensations despite the dawning notion that something might be going a little wrong. He squirmed up to meet the slapping hands. Spanking. They were spanking him.

"Oh my god," Rimmer said. The girls, the tent, and the beach had disappeared. He was on his knees in a room he knew very well, from Indian rug to paneled walls, to especially the black-gowned heft and scowling face of his boarding school headmaster. He looked down to see his  
erection poking up against the white broadcloth shirt and school tie he now wore. The navy wool jacket was hot and itchy at his armpits.

"You're a disgusting little pervert, aren't you, Rimmer?" Headmaster Bunston sneered.

Rimmer swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"We're going to have to flog these perversions right out of you, aren't we, Rimmer?"

"Er. No, sir?" Think, man. Think. Get yourself out of here. You're in control. This is your game...

The dirt was hard and dusty under his knees, sticking a bit to the oil still slathered all over him. The headmaster and his office were gone, and Rimmer was about to sigh with relief when he noticed he couldn't move. His head and wrists were encased in some sort of wooden --  
stocks. They were stocks. The office wall had become a village, and by craning his head he could just make out some old buildings of the sort Shakespeare and his mates might've gotten thrown out of. People dressed in ancient peasant garb were gathering in the town square, muttering eagerly.

The upper part of his body was still clothed; he could feel the stiff collar of his full dress uniform against his neck. It wasn't all that was stiff. His willie still bobbed delightedly in the breeze, aching harder than ever. Could his life possibly be more mortifying?

His brother Frank, dressed in his Space Corps admiral's uniform, strode in front of him carrying a clipboard.

Rimmer felt his face heat. To be half-naked, oiled, and kneeling in stocks in a public square was one thing. But to be half-naked, oiled, and kneeling in stocks in a public square in front of his brother, his mother's-favourite, get-all-the-breaks, smegging _admiral_  
brother...well, that was the last straw. And nothing Arnold Judas Rimmer was going to stand for. Or kneel for.

"Frank, hallo!" He tried for cheery goodwill whilst his guts boiled. "Good to see you. It's been too long."

Frank gave him a careless glance. "See you haven't changed, Arnold, you pathetic waste. Still wetting the bed?"

Rimmer struggled against the wood chafing his wrists. "Look, Frank. I seem to have got a bit, er, stuck in a --"

"Oh, give it a rest, you whining ponce." The clipboard came up, obscuring Frank's face. He called out, in an official-sounding voice, "Arnold Judas Rimmer, you have been found guilty of gross indecency toward a fellow member of the Space Corps."

"Hey, I -- what? Gross indecency? I'm a _hologram_, for god's sake. I can't even --"

The town square melted away, replaced by a rough cement wall an inch from his nose. Rimmer was chained to it by his wrists. It was cold against his traitorous hard-on. He was completely naked now. At least the stocks were gone.

"The court will now carry out the sentence," Frank intoned.

"Sentence? Frank? Frank!" He turned his head to see his brother leaving the room. Someone was still there, though; he heard the breathing behind him. A harsh cracking sound rent the air. A whip.

Rimmer panicked. "It's only a game, it's only a game," he said, squinching his eyes tight shut and bracing himself. Anything was better than this. His sweaty brain groped for something comforting, something familiar --

The unmistakable scent of spices and worn leather reached Rimmer's nose, and then a well-known voice said, "Oh. My god."

Rimmer boggled. "Lister?!?"

"You couldn't have stayed with Marilyn Monroe? You had to do this to yourself?" The whip cracked again, and this time white stinging pain broke against his backside. Rimmer yelped.

"Lister, shut up you gimboid! Can't you see I'm --" The whip landed again, painting a sharp stripe of pain next to the first. Rimmer cried out as his dick drooled all over  
his belly. This was not happening.

"You ruin everything, Rimmer."

The air around him whistled and the next blow connected, the pain blending into a hot haze all through him. The ache between his legs only increased, joining with the throb in his arse. "Aaah! Stop him! Stop --" The whip cracked again.

Turning his head, he could see Lister advance on the prison guard, could hear a punch land and a heavy body fall to the ground. Thank god, thank god. "Why couldn't you leave the smegging game alone?" Lister came closer, reached up to unchain him. As Lister worked at the  
manacles, he was so close Rimmer could have kissed him. "You know what happened last...oh...smeg..."

"Lister?"

"Smeg!" Lister cried as he re-locked the wrist cuffs and stepped away. Out of the corner of his eye Rimmer watched as he picked the whip up from the floor. "Don't make me do it, Rimmer! Think about something else!"

"I can't!"

The whip thudded somewhat gently across his flaming backside. "Would you settle for a light grazing? What if I just slapped you a bit?"

"It won't work!"

The whip thudded again, slightly more heavily. "You've got to try!"

Harder, Rimmer thought.

"What?"

He managed to whisper this time. "Harder."

There was a pause. "Eh?"

"Harder, you tiny-brained git!" he yelled. "Harder!"

"No!" Lister said, but the next strike was like a column of fire. Hard and fast they were falling now. Lister was even better with the whip than the prison guard had been, adding sharp stinging pain to the tender ache and building it, building it. Rimmer yelled freely, thrashing under Lister's blows as the tight need in his cock and balls threatened to explode...

The lights went bright and then dim, the pain vanished, and Rimmer lost his balance for a moment as Red Dwarf's games bay came into focus.

"What the smegging smeg were you smegging doing?" Lister asked him quietly. Rimmer took one look at him and came all over his pajamas.

After an eternity of sticky horror, Rimmer cleared his throat. "Holly, clean pajamas, please," he said weakly. Holly obliged him without comment, probably too repulsed to say anything. Rimmer drew himself up and regarded his bunkmate with righteous indignation. "How dare you?"

"Rimmer, you were screaming. I was asleep, I woke up when I heard you screaming."

"Perhaps next time you should leave a fellow to his screaming in peace, instead of joining him in his personal, private game without an invitation."

Lister had the nerve, the outrageous audacity, to look perplexed. "What are you on about? I didn't --"

"I was enjoying my own game, by _myself, alone_, when you so rudely --"

"I rudely told Holly to shut the game off, seeing as you were screaming."

Rimmer blinked. "You didn't join the game?" Oh please god and masterful aliens who control the universe, please please please.

"No. After what happened last time? No, I just told Holly to shut it off, and then you..." Lister blushed. Lister could blush?

No matter. He was saved. No one would be the wiser. "Would it be too much to ask," he said sternly, "if you could allow me just a smidgen, just the barest _smidge_ of privacy? Would that be too much to ask?"

Lister looked truly uncomfortable now. "Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to...interrupt anything. I didn't think..." he was backing away into the corridor. Rimmer jumped down from the gaming platform and joined him.

"Well, perhaps if you thought of something besides sleeping and eating once in a while," Rimmer sniffed, enjoying the upper hand.

Lister looked at him intently. "Oh, I do. Believe me."

Rimmer swallowed and looked away. "Yes. Well."

They reached their quarters, and Rimmer waited for Lister to climb up to the top bunk before throwing himself down in his own.

"Lights," Rimmer called, and they were in darkness. Silence, but for the ship's hum.

"I really am sorry, Rimmer."

"Just see you don't do it again."

"I mean it. I mean, I can understand now why you might have been loud and all --"

"Black card, Lister. I'm holding up a black card."

"But if you didn't want me to come and help, d'you mind telling me why it was me name you were screaming?"

 

END

The quote:   
"206.  
Every male person is guilty of an indictable offence and  
liable to five years' imprisonment and to be whipped who,  
in public or private, commits, or is a party to the  
commission of, or procures or attempts to procure the  
commission by any male person of, any acts of gross  
indecency against another male person."  
\- from Part V of the Canadian Criminal Code, 1927


End file.
